


Predators

by YoursTruly (Lyscey)



Series: Predators [1]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, I'm not even kidding, M/M, Murder, Oral Sex, Porn with barely any plot, Sexual Content, violence as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 15:06:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/pseuds/YoursTruly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Numbers, the job’s not about power. It’s not about control. It’s not really even about the money, although that’s a big incentive. What it’s ultimately about is the violence. Cold, calculated displays of brute force are what Numbers really loves in this world, and the first time he lays eyes on Wrench he sees the potential for bone-snapping passion written all over him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predators

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched Fargo recently and these two idiots stole my heart.  
> Also: I had forgotten how hot Adam Goldberg is and couldn't stop imagining what he'd look like getting a blow job. So here we are.  
> This is my first fic in this fandom. Nice to meet you all! Have some porn!

For Numbers, the job’s not about power. It’s not about control. It’s not really even about the money, although that’s a big incentive. What it’s ultimately about is the violence. Cold, calculated displays of brute force are what Numbers really loves in this world, and the first time he lays eyes on Wrench he sees the potential for bone-snapping passion written all over him.

He learned sign language for Wrench, and from Wrench, as quickly and completely as he could over the course of their first three jobs together. It surprised him how easily he picked it up, but he knows he mostly has Wrench’s patient demeanor and expressive face to thank for it. They communicate better now, a year into working together, than Numbers ever had with his own mother. Wrench anticipates his needs and actions in the most bizarre ways, including finishing his sentences when Numbers stumbles or hesitates over a sign. Numbers can read Wrench like a ticking clock: slow and quiet during the wind up, sharp and grandiose on the strike, and he always knows when it’s coming. He’s felt more intimacy between the two of them than most people he’s ever been  _inside of_ , and once he realizes it he can’t get that thought out of his head.

 _Inside_  Wrench. Wrench  _inside_  him. Not like a magazine inside a gun; like calories inside chocolate. It doesn’t have to be sexual, but it is. Numbers can feel it churning in him, becoming more and more a part of their daily life. He’s sure one day it’ll solidify, so ingrained in who he is at that point Numbers will have to either beat Wrench or fuck him. The tight-laced, Hebrew school kid in him still thinks it’ll interfere with the jobs, it’s unprofessional, it’ll ruin their comradery. The work, the only other thing in the world Numbers truly loves, will suffer.

This job is fucked up beyond all recognition, anyway. It should have been easy: small time distributor running an unauthorized business out of a syndicate warehouse. Fargo’s warehouse, full of Fargo’s property, and under Fargo’s protection. He wants it taken care of, swiftly and quietly, and if anyone’s proven themselves to be both of those things it’s Wrench and Numbers.

However, it isn’t easy. Some men don’t know, when their time comes, they ought to just lay down and die with dignity. Some men are still animals deep down inside and they bolt, lash out when they’re cornered, writhe and kick until their last breath. This man, knowing he was doing something that, if it got back to his bosses, would get him killed, hired some enforcers of his own. Which would have been nice to know before Numbers and Wrench snuck in to grab him.

They didn't know. The recon was incomplete. By the time they have their man knocked out and slung over Wrench’s right shoulder like a feed sack their exit is blocked and someone is shooting at them from the opposite direction. By silent agreement they both turn and press their backs together, Numbers jostling the load Wrench carries and starting the body sliding down Wrench’s shoulder. He catches it and holds the little man, with an arm slung around his ribs, like a human shield while he draws his gun and tries to steady it in his non-dominant, left hand.

They hadn't expected to use their guns but Numbers had put a silencer on his .38 anyway, just in case. He always thought it made the gun look and sound like a toy, but that doesn't make the bullets less real or his aim less true. Wrench, on the other hand, favors revolvers for their simpler mechanics and thus doesn't have a silencer. The blasts from his .44 magnum ring off the metal walls and roof, making Numbers flinch. It takes four of them to bring down the man he’s firing at.

“Shit!” Numbers only says it because Wrench can’t see his lips. They’re not in much of danger of someone calling the cops to a place like this, but if their intel was wrong about the existence of muscle to begin with, there could easily be more than two and Wrench just told everyone within a half-mile radius that there are guns here.

Wrench turns around and lays their now bleeding target on the concrete floor between himself and Numbers. He’s got two .38 caliber slugs in him, blood and bile covering the front of his shirt and pants from being held upright by Wrench. He’s breathing now, but Numbers suspects he’s only got about twenty more minutes. Wrench is kneeling on one knee beside him, holstering his gun in favor of a large buck knife. He starts to cut open the shirt to get a look at the injuries when Numbers hears footfalls, fast and loud on the gravel outside. He kicks the prone man’s hip to get Wrench’s attention.

 **More. That way.**  Numbers signs, then jerks his head toward the open bay doors behind Wrench, where he can hear their voices. There’s at least two out there but now he’s sure he can hear more coming from the other door, too. He turns back around and raises his gun, fires at a man as he steps into the doorway. Two shots land, center of mass, just where Numbers wants them.  He can hear shouting behind him, but no shots other than his. There’s grunting, a struggle, and something falling heavily onto the floor, but he doesn't dare look around yet. Wrench has his back, and he has to watch Wrench’s.

Three quick, wild shots come from a gun arm stuck through the door Numbers is watching. They’re all wide, hitting nothing but metal shipping containers. He waits, and it doesn't take long for the idiot to poke his head around the wall to look, and lets Numbers get him right between the eyes.

He’s getting worried about Wrench, so he chances it and turns around. Wrench has his buck knife turned in his grip so the blade is perpendicular to his forearm, another man’s blood dripping ominously from the tip. A third man is sizing him up, brandishing a knife too: a wicked little switch blade that looks more like an ice pick than a knife. Wrench is fast, and likes to go for the throat, but the other man has the same idea. They end up chest to chest; grappling, landing little jabs to the ribs and abdominals. Numbers’ trigger finger itches. He wishes he could shoot but even as good as he is he could easily hit Wrench like this. Eventually, the other guy’s knees buckle under Wrench’s superior strength and weight and they both go down. The huge, bone handled buck knife starts to disappear into the merc’s chest, just below his clavicle, and Numbers is mesmerized. The guy’s eyes and mouth are wide open and shocked, but Wrench is collected as ever, watching the knife cut through muscle and cartilage as intently as Numbers.

It’s been a while since a job has gone this badly; at least six months since Numbers has seen Wrench kill a man up close, with his hands. It’s only been about two since he started having these weird, intense feelings about Wrench and now, standing there watching him, Numbers feels like he’s hard enough to cut glass. This shouldn't be erotic, but it is. It’s like  _sex_. Not in a voyeuristic way, like watching Wrench fuck someone, but in a visceral way. Like foreplay. Like he’s doing this for Numbers, just to turn him on.

Wrench is totally still for a moment, eyes on the blade, and Numbers thinks he might be hurt. Then Wrench exhales and he realizes  _he was_ _feeling for the man’s heart to stop beating in the vibrations coming through his knife_  and Numbers shudders and grasps at his chest over his pounding heart.

Before he can check himself Wrench is in front of him, holding him up by his biceps with those huge hands, steadying him. Wrench shakes him gently until his rolling eyes right in their sockets and he’s looking up into Wrench’s doe-brown ones. He tries to lean away so Wrench won’t feel his erection but the other man must think he’s falling or losing consciousness because he pulls Numbers upward, hard, and into his body, arms wrapping around his waist.

Numbers can see it on Wrench’s face when he finally feels Numbers’ hard cock pressed to his hip. His eyes go wide, brows lifting up to his fringe, and his pink lips parting just a little. Numbers glances down at them, then back up into Wrench’s eyes and lingers, watching as his irises lighten and thin around his expanding pupils. Now it’s Numbers’ turn to look surprised. He tips his head to the right, trying to make it clear he’s about to ask a question, holds up his right fist and rocks it twice:  **Yes?**

Wrench nods enthusiastically:  **Yes.**

“Oh, thank fuck,” Numbers says, and crushes their mouths together. Still barely on his feet thanks to their height difference, he doesn’t have much choice when Wrench starts walking, backing him up until he’s pressed up against the corrugated steel side of a shipping container. He lets his head thud against it, hard, trying to dampen his arousal a bit, but Wrench pokes him in the chest, demanding attention. The ‘V’ of his first two fingers comes up in front of his eyes, then falls slowly down to point at his own chest. **Look at me.**

Numbers nods. Licks his lips. Wrench smiles and goes to his knees.

It’s only then Numbers realizes he’s still holding his pistol in his left hand. He starts to tuck it back into his pocket as Wrench unbuttons the coat, but Wrench stops him. Numbers turns his palms up:  **What?**

 **Keep it out** , Wrench signs.  **To be safe.**

Numbers sighs hard through his nose and caresses Wrench’s cheek as Wrench undoes his belt, then pulls his pants and boxers down over his thighs. His erection bobs for a moment before Wrench nuzzles his face into Numbers’ hip and lets in lay right across a cheekbone, which Numbers notices is just starting to bruise. One of the guards must have got in a lucky shot earlier. Numbers feels light headed again and Wrench hasn't even started.  **This won’t be long.**

 **Don’t care. Next time.**  Wrench signs with his right hand and holds Numbers’ cock in his left. Almost before Numbers can register what Wrench said, that hand is on his hip, holding him against the cold steel container, and Wrench’s warm mouth is around the crown his cock.

This is easily the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him. He has a gun in one hand, a fist full of Wrench’s red-brown curls in the other, getting  _fantastic_  head in a dimly lit warehouse as a pool of blood slowly spreads toward them. It occurs to him that perhaps, somewhere deep, deep down, he’s an animal too. Not like that little weasel they came here for; more like a shark. A lioness. An alpha wolf. This must be what it feels like to be an apex predator.

That’s the last thought in Numbers’ head before Wrench opens his eyes, the hunger in them obvious. Dangerous. Predatory.

Numbers comes so hard his vision whites out, like static on an old television.

Wrench tucks him back into his boxers and rights his slacks and belt before standing up and licking his way sloppily into Numbers’ mouth. The sharp tang of semen is everywhere, he can even smell it and it makes his hips buck as he moans into Wrench’s mouth. He reaches out and rubs a flat hand between Wrench’s legs, squeezing when he finds what turns out to be an impressive erection. He pulls away, smacking his head on the shipping container again, to make room for his right hand between them.

**What do you want?**

Wrench shakes his head. **Later. Rather wait.**   

 **Anything.**  Numbers signs it over and over until Wrench grabs his wrist, chuckling without sound like he does.

He looks at Numbers through his eyelashes again, pupils still blown wide and looking like every bad idea Numbers has ever had.  **You don’t even know the signs for what I want.**

Numbers swallows hard.  **Anything** , he signs again.  **For you. Anything.**

**Good. You drag bodies while I move the car. We have six bodies to hide before sun up.**

He kisses Numbers one more time, a quick, soft thing, before moving  away and heading for the door, stooping to pick up his discarded buck knife and wipe the blood off it on their dead mark’s jeans on his way out. 

Numbers surveys the damage, feels the little thrill shoot through him like it always does in the presence of chaos and fresh blood. “I can’t believe that just fucking happened,” he tells the room in general. His prey, predictably, doesn't respond.


End file.
